


A Sherlockian Christmas Carol

by bibliolatry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU - A Christmas Carol, Gen, Major OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas Carol slightly revamped and told with Sherlock characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not edited or Brit-picked. All errors are my own. If you see a mistake, please let me know so that I can correct it. Thanks!
> 
> 15DEC13 - a few minor edits. Enjoy.

Victor Trevor was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Holmes signed it. And Sherlock Holmes' name was considered good for any piece of business he chose to put his hand to. Trevor was as dead as a doornail.

Now, I don't know what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I would think a coffin nail would be a deader piece of iron; but, far be it from me to change the expression, or the country's done for. So, permit me to repeat, once again, emphatically, that Trevor was dead as a doornail.

Sherlock knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Sherlock and he had been partners for I don't know how many years. Sherlock was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole friend, and the only man who mourned him...if Sherlock can be said to have mourned at all. And the mention of Trevor's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Trevor was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Sherlock never painted out Trevor’s name. There it stood, years afterward, above the warehouse door: Holmes and Trevor. The firm was known as Holmes and Trevor. Sometimes people new to the business called Sherlock ‘Holmes‘, and sometimes ‘Trevor‘, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

***

Seven years later

Sherlock sits at his desk. John Watson, his clerk, shivers at his own desk. They work in silence. Sherlock takes in John’s eyes traveling every so often between the single dieing ember, the locked box of coal, and the keys that sit on Sherlock’s desk. He won’t give the man any more. It’s a waste of money. It’s plenty warm enough in the office.

“A merry Christmas, brother!” Mycroft calls out as he enters the office. He holds a small package in his hands as he comes to a standstill in front of his younger brothers desk. 

“Humbug,” Sherlock replies without looking up.

“Christmas a humbug, brother dear? Surely you don’t mean that,” he sets the package on the edge of Sherlock’s desk.

Sherlock glances at the gift as he answers. “I do. Merry Christmas! What is Christmas time but a time for buying things for which you've no need nor money. A time for finding yourself a year older and not an   
hour richer. What reason do you have to be Merry? You're poor enough.”

“If that’s so,” Mycroft answers, a small smile playing across his lips, “then what reason have you to be so dismal? You’re rich enough.”

“Bah,” Sherlock grunts out as he pushes the gift to the floor.

“Don’t be cross, Sherlock,” Mycroft says as he bends to pick up the gift and put it back on the desk.

“How else should I be when I live in a world of fools? Merry Christmas? Humbug!”

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock rises from his chair. “You keep Christmas in your own way and let me have mine.”

“But you don’t keep it, Sherlock.”

“Then allow me to leave it. What good has it ever done you?”

“Well, there are many things from which I have benefited, even if they didn't show a profit, I dare say. Christmas among the rest. But if anything belonging to Christmas can be considered apart from the sacred source of its name and origin, I am sure I have always thought of Christmas as a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time of year I know of when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and think of others as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave rather than another species entirely. And therefore, brother, though it has never put a scrap of silver or gold in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

John stood from his desk, a bright smile on his face as he applauded Mycroft’s speech.

“Watson! Another sound from you and you’ll keep your Christmas by celebrating your unemployment.” John returns to his work as Sherlock moves across the room and files away some paperwork. He turns back to his brother, “You’re quite the powerful speaker, sir. I wonder why you haven’t gone into Parliament*.”

 

“Come now, Sherlock, don’t be angry,” Mycroft holds up a hand as if to calm him. “Come dine with us tomorrow.”

“Eat with you?” Sherlock laughs. “I’d rather eat with the devil.”

“Molly and I would enjoy your company immensely, Sherlock.”

“Your wife - yes I heard she was poor. Didn’t bring much into the marriage. Why did you get married?”

“Because I fell in love. I love her and she loves me. It’s what people do when they fall in love.”

“You fell in love,” Sherlock sniffed in disdain. “That is the only thing more ridiculous than Merry Christmas. Good afternoon, sir.” Sherlock returned to his desk and his work.

“I ask nothing of you, Sherlock. Why can’t we be friends?”

“You are wasting your time, Mycroft. Good afternoon.”

“I am sorry, with all of my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never fought, Sherlock, but I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last. Merry Christmas, Brother.”

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says more forcefully.

“And a Happy New Year,” Mycroft adds in as he heads towards the door. He pauses before he leaves and turns back. “Merry Christmas, John.”

“Merry Christmas, sir,” John replies as Mycroft opens the door and takes his leave.

“There's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shilling a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Sussex,” Sherlock grumbles.

A moment later the door opens again and two elderly women enter. One blows on a tuner and they begin to sing only to be cut off by Sherlock.

“Stop that confounded racket and get to the point. I have business to attend to.”

“Holmes and Trevor, I believe. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Holmes or Mr. Trevor?” the first lady spoke.

“Mr. Trevor has been dead for seven years, madam, do get on with it.”

“We, no doubt, have his generosity well represented by his   
surviving partner,” says the second woman.

The first woman begins to pace back and forth between Sherlock’s and John’s desks. “During this festive season of the year, Mr. Holmes, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at present.”

“Many thousands are in want of common comforts, sir,” the second speaks up.

“Do we have no prisons?” asks Sherlock

“There are plenty,” says the second woman.

“And the workhouses?” asks Sherlock. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are,” supplies the first.

“I wish we could say that they are not,” adds the second.

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigor, then?” asks Sherlock.

“Both are very busy, sir,” says the first again.

“Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed, “I was afraid from what you said at first that something had stopped them in their useful course. I’m very glad to hear they are still operating.”

The second woman speaks, her eyes trained on the floor. “A few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and some means of warmth because at this time the want is more keenly felt.”

“How much should I put you down for?” asks the first woman.

Sherlock glances up at them and returns to his work. “Nothing.”

“You wish to remain anonymous?” asks the second woman.

“I wish to be left alone,” answers Sherlock. “I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people emery. My taxes help support the establishments I have mentioned and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many would rather die,” the first woman notes.

“If they would rather die,” Sherlock looks up at them fully, “they had better do so and decrease the surplus population.”

“But, sir,” admonishes the second woman. “Certainly you don’t mean that.”

“With all my heart,” answers Sherlock as he rises and pulls a book from a high shelf. “If I could work my will, every idiot who goes around with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through the heart.”

“But surely you would want to help them,” pushes the first woman.

“It’s not my business,” he tells her, returning to his desk and looking through the book. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon.”

 

As the women leave, John takes a quick glance at his watch and begins to gather his coat and scarf.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting tomorrow off,” Sherlock asks as he continues working.

“If it’s convenient, sir,” John replies.

“It’s extremely inconvenient and unfair. If I were to dock your pay for it, you’d think yourself ill-used. And yet, you don’t think me ill-sed when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

“Christmas only comes once a year, sir,” John reminds him.

Sherlock stands and pulls on his own coat. He buttons it and wraps his scarf around his neck. “A poor excuse for picking a man’s wallet every December twenty-fifth, but I supposed you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier the next morning.”

“I promise, sir,” John tells him as he heads towards the door. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Humbug.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I had intended to update this a chapter a day until I had to story completed. My kids catching a cold stopped me from doing so. I will do my best to update more often now. Enjoy.

Oh, Sherlock - he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, he was. A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner, to be sure! Secret, self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. He carried his own low temperature with him everywhere he went; he iced his office in the dog-days, and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

Sherlock always took his melancholy dinner in the same melancholy tavern, and this night was no different. He read all the papers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, before he took himself home to bed. He lived at 221B Baker Street, in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner.

They were a gloomy suite of rooms. It was old and dreary, for nobody lived in it but Sherlock, the other rooms remaining unused and dreary. The fog and frost so hung about the black door of the house that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

Upon arriving in his sitting room, Sherlock took off his Belstaff, put on his dressing gown, slippers, and his nightcap and sat down before the fire to take his porridge; for he had a cold in his head. It was a very low fire, indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.

***

The incessant ringing of bells that had long been disabled alarms Sherlock and he sits frozen as they fade to silence. A moment later, the rattle of chains can be heard as a voice booms:

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock jumps from his chair, his bowl and spoon slipping from his grasp. He stares wide-eyed at the door to his sitting room as the voice booms again, a long drawn-out cry of his name.

“Sheeeeerloooock.”

Sherlock takes a moment to calm himself before he speaks. “Humbug. I won’t believe it.”

Victor Trevor enters his flat, a grayish-white figure bound in cash-boxes and thick ledgers on oversized chains secured with huge padlocks, all of the same color. He stops a few paces from Sherlock.

“How is this possible,” Sherlock stutters out. “What do you want with me?”

“Much,” Victor replies in a dark voice.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asks.

“Ask me who I was,” Victor tells him.

“Alright, who were you then?” Sherlock complies.

“In life I was your partner, Victor Trevor.”

“Ha,” Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe it.”

“What evidence would you have of my reality aside from your senses?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You might be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are! Ha ha!”

Victor lets out an ear piercing screech and Sherlock drops to his knees, hands clasped before him.

“Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“So caught up in worldly things, Sherlock. Do you believe in me or not?”

“I do!” Sherlock exclaims, bringing himself to his feet. “I must. But why have you come to me?”

“It is required of every man that his spirit should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit does not go forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared, and turned to happiness! Oh, woe is me!”

“You are tied here. Why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, yard by yard, and wore it of my own free will. Is the pattern strange to you? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was as long and heavy as this seven Christmas Eves ago. You have labored on it since! It is a ponderous chain!”

Sherlock glances at the floor around them, sees nothing. “Victor, tell me, is there anything of comfort you have to say to me?”

“I have no comfort to give. I have little time. My spirit has never left the narrow limits of our money-changing hole. Oh, not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused. Yet that is who I was. How foolish I was.”

“But, Victor, you were always such a good man of business.”

“Business?! Humankind was my business!” Sherlock drops to his knees again. “The common welfare was my business. Charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business. Oh, why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down and never raised them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me? Hear me well, Sherlock. My time here is nearly gone.”

“I will, Victor. But, please, go easy on me.”

“I am here to warn you that you have yet a chance of escaping my fate. A chance I have procured for you, Sherlock.”

“You always were a good friend to me, Victor. Thank you.”

“You will be visited by three spirits.”

“Oh, if that’s the case, then I’d really rather not.”

“Without their visits, Sherlock, you cannot hope to change your path. The first will arrive when the bell tolls midnight.”

“Can’t they all come at the same time? Won’t that make things easier?”

“The second will arrive at the stroke of one. The third just as the last stroke of two has ceased to vibrate. You will not see me anymore, Sherlock. Take care that you remember what I have said to you.”

Sherlock stands still for a bit, his attempts to shake off the experience. He doesn’t succeed.

***

And so, Sherlock lay in his bed and thought, and thought, and thought it over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavored not to think, the more he thought.

Trevor's spirit bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position and presented the same problem to be worked all through.

***

Sherlock paced along the carpeted floor of his bedroom. He paced and paced and paced, then turned and flopped into his bed only to toss and turn over and over as his mind refused to settle. 

He sits up in his bed just as the bell tolls a quarter past the hour. He marks each stage of the hour that passes: half past, quarter till. Finally, the bell tolls midnight.

“Ha!” Sherlock jumps from his bed. “The hour itself, and nothing else.”

He lays back down and finally allows his mind to shut off. Just as he’s dosing off, a figure emerges from the shadows and the room fills with light. 

“Sherlock.” The woman could be considered beautiful, her mocha skin spotless, her head of curls tamed to perfection. She wears a flowing gown fitted to her slim figure. 

“Are you the Spirit I was told would come?” Sherlock asks

“ I am,” the woman replies.

“Who, and what, are you?”

“I am the Spirit of Christmas Past.”

“Long past?” Sherlock asks as his eyes roam over the woman’s body.

She scowls at him, “No, your past.”

“Would it be possible to turn down the light that accompanies you?”

“Why? Why would you put out the light I give so soon? Your passions are so dark as to extinguish the light of truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rushes to say. “I meant no offense.” He pauses for a moment before asking: “What brings you here?”

“Your welfare, of course,” she rolls her eyes.

“I can’t think of anything more conducive to my welfare than a nigh of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Your reformation, then!” she scowls at him some more. “Take heed! Come with me.”

Sherlock follows her out the door expecting to see his London. Instead he’s greeted with a scene from his past. The boarding school his father dropped him off at as a boy.

“Heavens!” Sherlock breathes out. “I was a boy here.”

“What’s that on your cheek?” the Spirit asks.

Sherlock raises a hand and wipes it over his face quickly. “Nothing. A pimple. What is the point of coming here?”

“Do you know where to go?”

“I could walk the way blindfolded,” Sherlock informed her.

“Funny that you should have forgotten it for so long, then.”

Inside the building there are a couple boys Sherlock recognizes. “Why, that’s Moriarty and Moran. Hello!” he calls to them.

“These are memories, Sherlock. They can’t see you.”

The boys go their separate ways. Sherlock turns back to the Spirit. “There’s no one else. It’s deserted now.”

“It’s not deserted,” the Spirit says and Sherlock follows her finger to the young boy sat in the corner. He’s hunched over a book, reading and looking sad.

“Poor boy,” Sherlock says. “My mother died giving birth to me. My father grew morose and seemed to begrudge my older brother and I. Sent us away and never came to visit or allowed us home.”

“Your father passed away not long after that.”

“That’s true, but my brother remained.”

“Yes, your brother. The only family you have left, Sherlock.”

“Yes, that is true,” Sherlock looks unsettled. “And I’ve done nothing to show him how much I care.”

“Come along, Sherlock. It’s time to see another Christmas.”

***

As they turn, Sherlock notes the scene before him changing to that of his first job. He worked as a clerk, trained under one Arthur Fezziwig. 

“Sherlock, William! No more work tonight, boys. It’s Christmas! Clear all this mess away. Let’s have a party! Hurry, now! Clear it away, make room!” 

The party is a hit, everyone dancing and laughing. “It’s such a small thing,” the Spirit says. “So easy to make these people smile.”

“Small thing?” Sherlock sounds outraged.

“Indeed. What did he do other than spend a few pence on a small party. He made no grand gesture. Why should he be praised?”

“It isn't that, Spirit. Why, Mr. Fezziwig has the power to make us happy or unhappy. He can make our work pleasant or miserable, just in the way he looks at us, and the way he addresses us! A thousand little things add up, you know, until the happiness he gives is as great as if it cost a great fortune, and…” he trails off as he comes to a realization.

“What is it?” the Spirit asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock turns away from the scene.

“Something, I think.”

“Nothing… It’s just… I would like to say something to my own clerk just now,” he turns back to the party.

“Hurry, now, Sherlock. My time is coming to its end. Look!”

This was not addressed to Sherlock, or to anyone that whom he could see, but if produced an immediate effect. Once again Sherlock saw himself. He was a little older now, a man in the prime of his life. His face free of the rigid lines of later years, but it had begun to bear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in his eyes, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

“I know it hardly matters to you, Sherlock. Another idol has taken my place. If it can make you as happy as I have tried, then I have no reason to cry.”

“What idol has displaced you, Irene?”

“A golden idol.”

“Now, there’s a double-standard for you. All the world is so against poverty and yet it condemns to pursuit of wealth just as vehemently.”

“You worry about the world too much, Sherlock. All your other hopes have merged into the one hope of eluding the disdain of others. I have seen your nobler virtues fall away, one by one, until nothing is left but the one master-passion - the pursuit of profit. It consumes you.”

“What then? Even if I have grown wider and more astute, I haven’t changed my feelings towards you.”

“Oh, Sherlock, our promise to one another is an old one. We made it when we were young and poor, and happy to remain so until we could improve our fortune together by patience and hard work. But you’ve changed. You are not the same man,” she pauses for a moment. “Tell me, Sherlock: if all of this had not happened, would you still seek me out and try to win me now, a poor dower-less girl with nothing to bring to a marriage.”

Sherlock turned away from her and that was answer enough. 

“May you be happy in the life you have chosen.”

“Show me no more,” Sherlock turned to the Spirit. “Please, I beg you. Take me away from here. I can bear no more.”

After this mighty struggle, if it could be called a struggle, Sherlock was conscious only of being exhausted, overcome by an irresistible drowsiness, and, further, of being in his own bedroom once again. He barely made it to his bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A particularly forceful snore wakes Sherlock from his slumber. He looks around a bit, expecting another spirit. When he sees none, he lays back. Just as his eyes close, he hears a rumbling voice echo through the flat.

“Sherlock Holmes!” It’s followed by a deep, rumbling laugh.

Sherlock slips from his bed and makes his way to the door to his bedroom. He opens it a crack and is surprised to see an attractive fellow with graying hair sat at his kitchen table. The table is covered with a feast fit for a king, the entire area surrounding the man lit with fairy lights and decked with mistletoe and brightly colored garland. Upon his graying head sat a crown of holly and in his hand sit’s a staff filled with what appears to be dust.

“Come here, Sherlock. Come and get to know me better. I am the Spirit of Christmas Present. You have never seen the likes of me before, eh?” his laugh rumbles forth again and Sherlock wonders how the being can be so happy.

“No, never,” he answers as he slowly makes his way out of his room and into the kitchen.

“You’ve never walked forth with any of my elder brothers born in these later years?”

“No, I don’t think I have. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?”

The Sirit laughs again, “More than eighteen hundred!”

“A tremendous family to provide for.”

The Spirit stands. “Take hold of my robe, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Where, pray tell, are we going?”

“You will see!”

Sherlock’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches out and grabs onto the robe. In a flash of light, the scene before him changes to a snow-covered street. All around them people bustle about. As the Spirit leads Sherlock along the path, he sprinkles dust upon those who pass by.

“Is there a particular flavor in what you sprinkle from your staff?”

“There is,” the Spirit replies. “My own.”

“Would it apply to any kind of dinner this day?”

“To any kindly given. To a poor one most.”

“Why to a poor one most?”

“Because it needs it most.”

Sherlock follows silently after that. As they twist and turn down streets, Sherlock finds he can hold his tongue no longer.

“Spirit, why do you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, desire to cramp these people’s opportunities of innocent enjoyment?”

“I do?”

“Well, you would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, when markets are closed, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all. Wouldn’t you?”

“Would I?”

“You seek to close these places on the seventh day, and it comes to the same thing.”

“I seek?”

“Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family.”

“There are some upon this earth of yours who claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us, and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doing on themselves, not us.”

Sherlock looks ahead as they come to a stop. He peers into the window of the small home the Spirit has lead him to. Inside, the Mary Watson busies herself preparing a meal.

“What is keeping your father out? And your brother, Hamish. And Martha wasn’t this late last Christmas by half an hour!”

A young woman enters, “Here I am, mother!”

“Oh, Martha! You’re late!”

“We had a great deal of work to finish at the milliner’s last night, and a great deal to clear away this morning.”

“Well, never mind, dear. You’re home now. Sit down and warm yourself, dear.”

“Father will be home any minute,” a younger girls enters the room saying. “Hide, Martha, hide!”

Martha ducks into a cupboard just as John Watson enters with a young boy on his shoulder. He sets the boy down and gives his wife a quick peck on the cheek.

“Where’s Martha?” he asks as he looks around at his family.

“She won’t be home for Christmas,” Mary replies. 

“Won’t be home for Christmas?” his faces betrays how unhappy he is.

Martha pops out of her hiding place, “here I am, father!”

John laughs and wraps her in a hug. Two of the younger children drag Hamish away to listen to the pudding singing in the copper as their parents watch on with smiles.

“And did little Hamish behave himself in church?” Mary asks.

“He did. As good as gold, and better. He seems to drift off into his thoughts when he sits by himself so much, and thins the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple and it might be pleasant for them to remember, on Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. He’s growing stronger every day, I just know it.”

“Martha, come help me with the goose,” Mary calls to their eldest as the younger children cheer.

The children praise their mothers cooking as they go about setting the table. John stands and raises his glass.

“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

“God bless us,” they chorus.

“God bless us, everyone!” Hamish calls out.

“I had no idea Watson had a crippled son,” Sherlock turns to the spirit.

“I wonder why,” he replies.

“Tell me, Spirit. Will the boy live?”

“That is not my area. But I can tell you this: if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, there will be a vacant seat at this table, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved.”

“No!” Sherlock exclaims. “No! That cannot be. Say he will be spared!”

“If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. But what difference does it make? If he is likely to die, then let him die, and decrease the surplus population,” on the last part, the Spirits voice raises and echoes.

“You use my own words against me,” Sherlock says, his voice betraying his hurt.

“I do, so that in the future, perhaps you will hold your tongue until you have discovered what the surplus population is, and where it is. Who are you to decide who shall live and die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child.”

They turn back to the window and look on.

“And now, dear ones, a toast. I give you Mr. Holmes, the founder of our feast,” John raises his glass again.

“Hmph!” Marry replies. “The founder of our feast, indeed. I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and hope he’d have a good appetite for it.”

“My dear! The children. Christmas Day.”

“It should be Christmas Day, when one would drink the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Sherlock Holmes. No one knows it better than you, John.”

“Darling. Have a little charity.”

“Oh, alright, then. I’ll drink his health, for your sake and the Day’s sake, but not for his,” she raises her cup. “Long life to him. A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I’ve no doubt he’ll be very merry, indeed, and very happy.”

“To Mr. Holmes,” John says.

“To Mr. Holmes,” Mary echoes.

“To Mr. Holmes,” the children chime in.

They all take a sip from their cups. John sets his down and claps his hands together. “Now, I think it’s time for some music. Who’s up for some carols?”

Hamish starts into ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ and the rest of the family joins in.

“Come now,” the Spirit says. “Our time grows short.”

When at last they come to a stop again, Sherlock does not recognize the home, but the voice is one he could never misplace.

“He called Christmas a humbug!” Mycroft’s voice drifts through the closed window they peek through. “And he believed it!”

“More shame for him, Mycroft,” Molly replies.

“He’s really a comical fellow, and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.”

“I’m sure he is very rich, Myc. At least you always tell me so.”

“But his wealth is of no use to him. He doesn’t do any good with it. He doesn’t make himself comfortable with it. And I sincerely doubt he would ever consider benefiting us with it.” The crowd of friends surrounding them laugh.

“Well, I have no pity for him,” Molly says above the ruckus.

“Oh, but I do! Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won’t come and dine with us. What’s the consequence? He loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not. Ithink I may have cracked the man yesterday, if I do say so myself.” The laughter starts up again. “He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink to his health. Here’s to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the group yells out as they all drink.

“Normally, I would take offence to such tasteless banter and laughter at my expense; however, in view of the general gaiety of the occasion, I am inclined to overlook it,” Sherlock grumbles out.

“That’s quite noble of you,” the Spirit replies.

Sherlock notices something sticking out from below the Spirits greatcoat. “Pardon me, Spirit, for overstepping my bounds, but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding there, from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”

“It might be a clar, for all the flesh there is on it. Look here!” he opens his greatcoat to reveal two thin,  
dirty, wretched, scowling waifs crouched and clutching at his feet.

“Are they yours?” Sherlock asks, his voice filled with alarm.

“They are yours, Sherlock. Do you not know them? This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all their kind, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see written the word DOOM, unless the writing be erased. I dare you to deny it! I dare you to slander anyone who claims otherwise and see where it leads!

“Have they no refuge or resources?”

“Are there no prisons?” the Spirit mocks. “Are there no workhouses.”

Sherlock’s world goes black. When he once again can make out the things around him, there is an ugly man with a horse-like face standing before him. His head is covered with a hood, his too large nose peaking out past its end. 

“I take it I am in the presence of the Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come?”

The man nods. 

“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that right, Spirit?”

The man nods again.

“I fear you most of all, Spirit. Why won’t you speak to me?”

The man lifts a clothed arm, his bony fingers poking out to point to a place behind Sherlock.

“Very well,” Sherlock sighs and turns, “Lead on, then. The night is passing fast and it is precious time to me. Lead on, Spirit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may just wind up uploading everything today! It's slow work, but I'm getting there! One Spirit left!


	4. Chapter 4

As Sherlock follows the silent man, he takes note of a group of men that seem to appear out of nowhere. 

“Hey!” Sherlock says, “I know those men. And this place - it’s the stock exchange! It’s a second home to me.”

The Spirit says nothing, only points to the group of men across from them.

“No, I don’t know anything about it. I only know he’s dead,” says one man.

“When did he die?” asks another.

“Last night, I believe,” replies the first.

“Why? What was the matter with him? I thought he’d never die,” says the third man.

“God knows,” says the first around a yawn.

“What has he done with his money?” asks the fourth man.

“No idea,” answers the first. “He hasn’t left it to me.” They all laugh for a moment.

“Well, it’s likely to be a cheap funeral. I don’t know a soul who’d attend. Should we volunteer?” asks the second.

“I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided, but I must be fed, for all the trouble it’s worth,” says the third and laughter erupts from the men again.

“Doesn’t matter to me either way,” says the fourth man. “I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch, but I’ll go if anyone else will. I need to get back to work. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” the others chorus.

“What is wrong with them? Have they no decency?”

The Spirit turns and points in the opposite direction. Sherlock turns to see what he’s pointing at. The scene that greets him is that of a greasy, bedraggled old man sitting on a chair surrounded by an odd collection of junk. There are two old women and a man in a black slink, all carrying bundles, making their way toward him. Each person takes their turn showing the old man their bundles and collecting a small fee for the items they turn over to him. 

“And this is how it ends,” one woman says. “He scared everyone away from him when he was alive, only to profit us when he was dead.” They all laugh as Sherlock turns back to the Spirit.

“This is a fearful place. Why have you brought me to this Godforsaken part of the city, except that the case of this unhappy man might be my own. Yes, the items they have stolen are similar to mine. I see the point. But surely there is someone who feels some emotion caused by this man’s death. Show that person to me, I beg you.”

The Spirit turns and points in another direction. Sherlock turns to see a man he’s done business with.

“Are we ruined, Thomas? Has he denied you the extra time you’ve asked for?” 

“No,” the man seems happy. “There is hope for us yet, Caroline.”

“Only if he repents, the old miser. Nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened.”

“He’s well past repenting, dear. He’s died.”

“Dead?” Caroline exclaims. “Oh, God be praised! Oh! Lord, forgive me!”

“I though he was trying to avoid me, trying to keep from being asked for more time, but now I come to find he truly was sick and is now dead.”

“Who will take over our debt?”

“I don’t know, my dear, but I highly doubt we will find a creditor as merciless as he was. We can sleep easy tonight.”

Sherlock turned back to the Spirit, indignation evident in his features. “I ask for feelings connected to the death of this man and you show me joy? I demand you show me some tenderness connected with death.”

The Spirit turns and points once more. When Sherlock turns in that direction, his breath catches in his throat. A young man is reading from a Bible.

“And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them. And he said to them, ‘Whenever you welcome a little child, you welcome me’.”

“This color hurts my eyes,” Mary says through tears. “There, better now. The candlelight makes them weak and I wouldn’t want to show weak eyes to your father when he comes home. Not for the world. It must be near his time.”

“Past it, rather,” the man looks up from his reading. “But I think he’s walked a little slower than he used to, these last few evenings, Mother.”

“Yes,” Mary repplies. “I’ve known him to walk with… I have known him to walk with Hamish upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”

“And so have I,” the young boy told her.

“And so have I,” the other children chimed in.

“But he was very light to carry,” Mary continued. “And his father loved him so, that it was no trouble, no trouble at all.”

John enters just then and they all greet him. He places a chaste kiss to Mary’s cheek before taking his seat and pulling one of the younger children onto his knee.

“I went by there today, is why I’m late,” he starts off. “I wish you could have been there. It would have done you good to see how green it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there every Sunday; to visit him, you see,” his voice cracks and the children scramble to wrap him in their arms. “But you’ll never guess who I saw today,” he says after he’s recovered. “Mycroft Holmes, Mr. Holmes’ brother. I met him on the street. He saw that I was a little down, and, well, he is the most pleasant-speaking man you ever heard, and so I was not afraid to tell him. And this is what he said to me: ‘I am heartily sorry, Mr. Watson, heartily sorry.’ And he pledged to be of any service he could to us. He even gave me his card and said I should call on him at home. But it’s not for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that I am thankful. It really seems as if he had known our little Hamish, and felt with us… And I’ve got good news for you, Peter!” he turned to the young man reading from the Bible

“What is it, Father?” the boy turns his attention to him.

“Mr. Hollowell told me that he has been able to secure an apprenticeship for you.”

The family cheers and teases Peter about starting a small family of his own. As the scene before him dims to nothingness, Sherlock turns back to the Spirit. He’s welcomed with the sight of a cemetery.

“Something tells me that your time is nearing it’s end. I know it, but I don’t know how. Tell me, the man who was spoken of, the one who died, tell me, Spirit. Who was he?”

The man points to a headstone and Sherlock moves closer to inspect it. He stops far enough to not yet be able to make out the name on the stone. His voice quivers as he speaks to the Spirit.

“Before I move any closer, tell me, Spirit. Are these the shadows of things that will be or things that may be?”

The Spirit continues to point at the headstone.

“The course of a man’s life, if preserved in, will determine certain ends; I accept it. But if he departs from those courses, the ends must change. Say it is so with what you have shown me.”

There is no sign of response from the Spirit, only his finger continuing to point at the stone. Sherlock creeps closer, keeping his eyes from dropping to the name. When he’s close enough to read it clearly, he finally glances down and immediately falls to his knees. 

“No!” he cries out. “No, it cannot be! Am I that man? Am I the man who died and whom no one mourned? Say it isn’t so, Spirit. Tell me it’s not true!” The Spirit continues to point at the stone and Sherlock cries out, tears falling freely. “Spirit, please! Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be that man again. Why show me this if I am past all hope?”

The ground begins to rumble underneath him. 

“Surely your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I may yet change these shadows you have shown me. I have changed my life!”

The ground continues to rumble and the Spirit begins to tremble. Sherlock latches onto his robes, pulling and pleading with him. “I will honor Christmas, in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I will remember the lessons of the Past; I will live in the Present; I will live toward the Future. The Spirits of all three will strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me that I may sponge away the writing on this stone.” He continues to pull and plead, his eyes scrunched tight.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sits up straight, a sob dieing in his throat. He looks around his room, momentarily confused. He leaps from bed, shouting and celebrating his continued existence. He runs into the sitting area of his flat and throws open one of the windows that show out onto Baker Street. 

“You,” he calls out to a passing child. “You, boy. What day is it?”

The boy looks up at him in confusion. “What day? It’s Christmas.” He turns and continues down the street.

“Wait!” Sherlock calls out to him and the boy turns back. “Do you know the butcher’s on the next street over and down a ways to the corner?”

“Of course, who doesn’t,” the boy calls back.

“Wonderful. Tell me, have they sold that large turkey?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Go and buy it.”

The boy starts looking up and down the street as though he’s searching for someone. He calls out ‘police’ a couple times before Sherlock can get him to listen to him.

“I mean it, boy. Go and buy that turkey and tell them to bring it back here. If you can get it back in five minutes, I make it worth your while.”

The boy rushes off and Sherlock rushes back to his bedroom to change. By the time he’s finished, the butcher is knocking at his door. He tips the young boy and gives the butcher directions to deliver the turkey to his clerks home. He pulls his door shut behind him as he waves off the boy and the butcher.

“A Merry Christmas to everybody!” he calls out as he starts down Baker Street. “A Happy New Year to all the world!”

Along his path, he runs into the two elderly ladies. He places a chaste kiss to each of their hands.

“Mrs. Hudson, dear,” says one.

“Mrs. Turner,” says the other.

“If I may,” begins Sherlock. “Allow me to ask your forgiveness, ladies. And would it be possible,” he leans in and whispers into Mrs. Hudsons ear.

“Mr. Holmes!” she exclaims. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am, madam. I truly am.”

“My dear sir! I don’t know what to say to such generosity…”

He cuts her off before she can say anything further. “Say nothing of it! Will you join me some time for a cup of tea? Both of you.”

“We will,” Mrs. Hudson assures and Mrs. Turner nods her agreement.

“Splendid,” Sherlock exclaims. He places a kiss to each ladies hand bidding them a good day before continuing his journey.

***

Would you believe it if I told you that Sherlock went to church that day? He really did. And walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head as they passed, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk, that anything at all, could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his step toward his brothers home.

***

“Oh, Mycroft,” Molly gasps. “It’s beautiful. It’s too much. You shouldn’t have spent so much.”

“But I love you, my dear, and my wife shall have the best on Christmas Day,” Mycroft tells her, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Oh, Myc. I love you so… but not just for this.

“I know, my dear, I know.”

Mycroft turns as there’s a knock at the door. Mycroft answers and is unable to keep the surprise off his face and out of his voice. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, that’s me.” Sherlock says. “I recall an invitation you made to me yesterday, to come and dine with you. If it’s still in force, I’d like to accept.”

Mycroft stands there for a moment, still frozen from the shock. He glances back to Molly briefly before turning his attention back to his brother. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“Well, you can either say ‘Bah humbug’, which I recommend not using, or you could say ‘Come in’.”

“Of course!” Mycroft exclaims as he finally steps back and allows Sherlock to enter their home. “Of course, you can come in. You’ve made us so very happy, Sherlock. This is my wife, Molly.”

“Mrs. Holmes,” Sherlock begins. “It is clear to me know why my brother chose you. You’re just as lovely as I have heard you described.”

“Thank you,” Molly’s cheeks flush with the praise.

Sherlock turns back to Mycroft. “I apologize, brother, for the things I said about Christmas. And I’m sorry for the poor reception I gave you yesterday, of which you were so undeserving.”

“Father would have wanted us to be close, Sherlock.”

“I know, Mycroft. And look, here we are now. And so we shall be for all the future.”

***

Sherlock sits at his desk fighting to keep the frown on his face. John Watson is officially fifteen minutes late. He enters the door to the office just as Sherlock is returning his newly acquired pocket watch (the gift his brother had brought him) to his coat pocket.

“You’re late, Watson,” Sherlock calls from his desk. 

John turns towards him a few paces shy of his own chair. “Yes, sir.”

“Why are you late?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Holmes. I hadn’t meant to be late, only, we were enjoying ourselves so much yesterday…”

“I am not going to stand for this any longer,” Sherlock talks over him and John falls silent. His eyes are trained on his boss, wide with worry. “And therefore,” Sherlock pauses for dramatic affect, “I am going to double your salary.” He pulls a cheque from behind his back and hands it to John. “Yes, John Watson,” Sherlock exclaims as he wraps his clerk in a hug, “I am going to double your salary. Merry Christmas, John. A Merrier Christmas than I have given you for many years. And from now on I will endeavor to assist you and your family in any way I can, and as for little Hamish, he will have the best doctors. He will walk again, I know it. Now, come with me. We’ll discuss the particulars over a bowl of smoking bishop before you so much as dot an ‘I’, John Watson.”

Sherlock was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. And to little Hamish, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew. And ever afterward it was always said of Sherlock Holmes that he knew how to  
keep Christmas, and keep it well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! 

 

God Bless Us Everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!!!
> 
> Happy New Year!!!
> 
> Enjoy your holidays <3

**Author's Note:**

> * I laughed while writing this. Think about it. Mycroft, in Parliament... Ha!


End file.
